User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 39
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Thirty-Nine 24 June 1995 Alastor counted handfalls as he dragged himself across the floor. One, two, three, four, five, six. He stopped, propped himself up on one hand and his good leg, and pushed down his drawers. Despite his need, it took him a few seconds before his bladder released. He tried not to piss too hard; he knew from experience that he was close to the wall, and he didn’t want it to spatter back at him. When he was finished, he rolled over on his side to relieve his bowels. He usually tried to hold his water and shite as long as he could, in hopes Crouch would visit not too long afterward and Vanish the mess. He might even cast a few cleansing spells on Alastor. A sensitive nose, had Bartemius Fecking Crouch Bloody Junior. After hitching his drawers back into place, Alastor pulled himself back across the cell. His left hand hit the canteen, sending it clanging and echoing through the small space. Bugger. He hoped it hadn’t gone all the way to Loo Corner. Alastor would dig through the mess for it if he had to, though. Merlin only knew when Crouch would come to bring him more water. Panic made his gorge rise. It seemed to come upon him more and more, although Merlin knew the idea of death held no horrors for him at this point. But thirst … He’d been reduced to drinking his own piss once, and that wasn’t a thing he ever cared to try again. When Crouch had returned—from a weekend off Dumbledore had forced on him, he’d said—Alastor had wept. The panic threatened to overtake him. Fuck it. He began to sing quietly into the darkness to beat it down. “If you’ll be the lass of Aughrim As I’ll take you to be Tell me that first token That passed between you and me. “Oh don’t you remember That night on yon lean hill When we both met together I am sorry now to tell …” His belly made a plaintive sound, and he fell silent. The song put him too much in mind of Minerva. He only let himself think about her after Crouch had just left. It was too dangerous otherwise. In his weakness, he might let something slip under Crouch’s Imperius. What a fool I’ve been. Alastor’s predicament—and everything that was going follow—was the result of his stupid pride and stubbornness. Minerva had hurt him, refusing to marry him, and then lying to him about her Order activities, but he’d hurt her first. He knew it now. He’d had long, lonely years to think it over. He’d wanted to protect her, but he’d pulled her too close. He knew how important her freedom was to her, yet he’d tried to control her as surely as everyone else in her life had done before, and in the end, it hadn’t mattered that he’d done it out of love. By the time he’d come to that realisation, he’d been a cripple and mad into the bargain, and she was well quit of him. That’s what he’d told himself, anyway. She’d wanted to be friends, sure, but that wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d wanted her, and by God, if he couldn’t have all of her, then he wouldn’t have any. The wanting was too painful. So he’d pushed away the one person left on this bloody island who really cared about him, until she no longer knew him well enough to know that Crouch wasn’t him. Now he’d never have the chance to tell her he was sorry. His stomach cramped and complained. Enough. Put her out of your mind. How long had it been since Crouch’s last visit? If his belly was gurgling, chances were the next one would be fairly soon. Crouch couldn’t let him get too thin; the Polyjuice transformation would reflect any significant changes in Alastor’s appearance. Nevertheless, the day would come when Crouch would either kill him or leave him to rot. It wouldn’t be too long now, Alastor reckoned. The second task was over ages ago—Crouch had come to crow afterwards. How many days since then? You couldn’t measure time in here; all Alastor knew was that there was too damn much of it. And too little left. So he sang. “As I went home on Monday night as drunk as drunk could be, I saw a horse outside the door where my old horse should be. Well, I calls me wife and I says to her, ‘Will you kindly tell to me Who owns that horse outside the door where my old horse should be?’ “‘Ah, you’re drunk, you’re drunk, you silly old fool, and still you cannot see, That’s a lovely sow that me mother sent to me.’” Alastor got as far as Saturday: “… So I calls me wife and I says to her, ‘Will you kindly tell to me Who owns the hands upon your breasts where my old hands should be?’ “‘Ah, you’re drunk, you’re drunk, you silly old fool, and still you cannot see—’” A sudden shaft of light pierced the darkness, followed by a thunk and a rattle as Crouch let himself down into the compartment. When Alastor opened his eyes, his doppelganger stood there, a handkerchief pressed to his nose. “Gods, but you stink, Moody. Tergeo!” Alastor noticed with alarm that Crouch’s hands were empty. No food. No canteen. It would be today, then. Or tomorrow at the latest. He prayed to Jesus that Crouch would oblige him with a quick AK instead of— No. Best not to think about that. “I didn’t know you had such a fine singing voice,” Crouch said. “A pity I never thought to try it out myself. But then, I’ve never much liked music.” He leant down and sliced off a small tuft of Alastor’s hair. It still infuriated Alastor to see his wand in Crouch’s fist. “Last time, old man,” Crouch said, stuffing the hair into his pocket. “In a few hours, I’ll be finished living in your disgusting old carcass. And you … you will simply be finished.” Crouch rubbed his bad leg. “It’s been a very long ten months,” he said, and it sounded almost like commiseration. “But when the Dark Lord rises again tonight … I’m only sorry that I won’t get to kill Potter myself, after all the trouble he’s given me. Not too bright, the Boy Who Lived, is he? But I’m sure the Dark Lord will let me take care of some of the other scum. I’ve earned my right to a little fun, don’t you think?” He began to pace. “I’ll start with Snape. Maybe I’ll even keep him alive for a while, take him home, keep him in the cellar where my father kept me. Then that dim-witted Weasley boy. Make his blood-traitor mummy and daddy watch while I kill him. And Longbottom. No, Bella can have him … she’d like to collect the set, I think, and she deserves a toy after all those years in Azkaban.” He gave an obscene giggle, and Alastor wondered how no one outside had noticed had truly mad “Mad-Eye” was. Crouch nattered on, elaborating on whom he would kill, and how. Alastor thought he was overly optimistic. Crouch apparently believed that all it would take would be Potter’s death and Voldemort’s return, and the rest of world would just stand by and let their lot take over. That, more than anything, was proof of his insanity. Surely Crouch realised Dumbledore wouldn’t roll over and play dead. Nor would Minerva, nor Shacklebolt, nor Bones, nor any of the other good, talented wizards and witches who’d fought Voldemort and won the first time around. Of course, who knew how long they could have held out if Potter hadn’t rebounded Voldemort’s curse and saved everyone’s hide, including, miraculously, his own. And Albus clearly thought the boy would be important again. Help me protect Harry Potter. That’s what Dumbledore had asked, and Alastor had failed utterly. Frustration pounded at his temples and his blood was a herd of hippogriffs in his ears. He’d had one fecking job to do, probably the last one he’d ever have, and he’d muffed it before he’d even got started. There was silence, and Alastor realised Crouch had stopped talking. He was grinning like a demented child waiting for praise from its mother. “You done?” Alastor asked. “No. But you are, I’m afraid.” He pointed his wand at Alastor, who forced himself to keep his eye steady on his murderer. Alastor thought fleetingly of Malcolm’s three children and sent a hurried prayer to whoever might be listening that they’d grow up free and happy in spite of his blunder. He waited for the blast of green light that would release him from this hell. But Crouch lowered his wand. “No,” he said softly and turned away. “Ta, Moody.” He gave the incantation to Levitate himself out of the trunk and began to rise. Alastor pushed off as hard as he could with his one leg and launched himself at Crouch’s back. His arms wrapped around Crouch’s thighs, and he hung on as Crouch’s concentration broke and they both fell. “Expelliarmus!” The wand flew out of Crouch’s hand, hit the wall, and clattered to the floor a few feet away. “Accio wand!” They’d both shouted at the same time. Alastor’s spell was stronger, even in his weakened state, but his reflexes were off, not to mention his binocular vision, and the wand ricocheted off the side of his head rather than sailing firmly into his hand. He rolled off of Crouch and dove for it, but just as his fingertips brushed it, he was hit from behind, and it skittered back out of his reach. Crouch was on his back. Alastor opened his mouth to cast another desperate Accio¸ but he had no voice. Crouch’s hands had closed around his throat, his fingers pressing into Alastor’s trachea. He tried to buck Crouch off him, but it was impossible with only one leg and a stump, and thirteen stone of imposter crushing him. After an eternity, the hands released him, and he gulped in mouthfuls of stale air. The weight lifted from his back, and he flipped over, panting, to see Crouch standing over him, wand pointed in his face. “I’m afraid not, old man. Stupefy!” ~oOo~ When the red sparks rose from the maze, Minerva quickly calculated that they were from Alastor’s side. There were several anxious minutes before Pomona came around the corner to give her the news. “It was Krum. He’s been Stunned, but Poppy says he’ll be all right.” “Thank you.” “Looks like Cedric and Harry are still in it,” Pomona said, giving Minerva a thumbs up before hurrying back to her place with the champions’ families. Krum Stunned? That was odd. Minerva had been consulted on all the obstacles for the maze—she’d Transfigured the Sphinx herself—and she could think of none that would result in a Stunning. Was it Miss Delacour, perhaps? Minerva had a hard time believing it was either Potter or Diggory, but she supposed it was possible. She continued patrolling her portion of the maze’s perimeter, alert for any sign of trouble from within. If asked, she’d never have admitted it, but she now harboured a secret hope that Harry might win it. He’d had help with the other two tasks certainly, but the third was the one she was least worried about. He was a bit of a prodigy in Magical Defence, and none of the obstacles in the maze were beyond his skills to manage if he kept his wits about him. The Sphinx’s riddle was the only thing she thought might trip him up. It was Filius’s doing, of course, and well … rational thought had never been Harry’s strong suit. Still, the boy wasn’t a fool, and he might work it out before Cedric, who’d never struck Minerva as the swiftest gnome in the garden, or Fleur, of whom Minerva admittedly knew little. She and Olympe had avoided the topic of their champions during the pleasant hours they’d spent talking. To Minerva’s delight, Olympe had remembered Malcolm, who’d been her student when she was Arithmancy mistress at Beauxbatons. “We were quite sad to lose him,” she’d said. “What is ’e doing now?” “He owns an apothecary in Paris.” “Ah! So ’e returned to France, then? Trés intelligent, ce garçon. Comme sa mère.” “Merci, Madame Directrice.” Madame Maxime had clasped her enormous hands together and leant forward. “Olympe. Je m’appelle Olympe.” “And you must call me Minerva.” Minerva had been glad to find a friend in Olympe Maxime. Albus had encouraged Minerva to seek her out—“You will likely find yourself in her shoes one day”—but she’d been reluctant. Alastor’s treatment of her had beaten her down, and her emotions were too battered for her to want to invite new friendships, but the chance to converse with another smart, powerful witch who understood the enormous responsibilities she shouldered had helped Minerva forget her troubles for a time. She looked to the sky as she paced the perimeter. It was remarkably clear, and she could see up into the stands. The hum of the crowd carried on the breeze and grew as the minutes ticked away with no more excitement from within the maze to divert them. Minerva had lost track of time when the murmur was pierced by a single scream, then a chorus of them, rising to a cacophony. What had happened? She didn’t dare leave her post in case any of the champions were still inside the maze, but her mind tripped across a variety of terrible possibilities even as she told herself not to be foolish. The crowd was overexcited and eager for something to happen, that was all. Nevertheless, her heart thudded and dread tightened her chest. The ominous form of Severus Snape appeared from around the corner. “Come quickly. Diggory’s dead. Dumbledore will need your help.” He disappeared in a flapping of black robes, and Minerva hurried after him. Diggory dead? And Potter? When she got to the front of the maze, she saw Pomona kneeling in the dirt, her hand on the shoulder of Amos Diggory, who was wailing as he clutched his son to him. From the way the boy’s head rolled on his neck, Minerva knew that Severus had been correct. He was dead. She could hardly comprehend the enormity of it. Albus stood between the Minister and Althea Diggory. Althea held herself stiffly, as if she could change the terrible events of the evening if only she didn’t move. Minerva thought of Malcolm and was nearly staggered by the visceral agony of the association. She couldn’t imagine what Althea felt at this moment. Fudge said something Minerva didn’t hear and that no one else acknowledged, and moved away from the scene, nodding at Dawlish and another Auror Minerva didn’t recognise. They followed him out of the stadium. Minerva went quietly up beside Albus and touched his arm. He looked over at her, his face hollow with disbelief, which terrified her. “Minerva,” he whispered. “Albus, what about Harry? Is he still in there?” “No, he’s … it was a Portkey, I think …” “A Portkey?” Minerva’s presence seemed to bring him back to himself. He gestured to her to move away so that Althea couldn’t hear. “He appeared outside the maze with Cedric’s body. He’s injured, in shock. It’s happened, Minerva. Voldemort’s back. Harry saw him.” Minerva barely processed the news of the Dark Lord’s return. She was focussed entirely on Harry. “Where is Harry?” “Alastor took him.” Albus’s brow creased. “I don’t know what he—” “Oh, my gods, Albus …” It had come to her with the power of an Avada Kedavra that Alastor wasn’t Alastor. Later, she would wonder what had made her so certain, but in that moment she was as sure of it as she was of her own name. Albus looked at her with an expression of puzzled consternation, then annoyance, as she struggled to find words to express the unthinkable. “Alastor … we have to … Harry … he …” Unable to form a coherent sentence, she clutched at Albus’s sleeve. “Alastor—” Albus’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell,” he said. He turned and ran in long, loping strides down the pitch toward the exit. Minerva hitched up her skirt, unconcerned about how undignified it might appear, and ran after him. Cornelius Fudge stood just outside the stadium exit, talking in hushed tones to the two Aurors, who were nodding gravely. “Albus, where are you going? Wait … Minerva?” Fudge called after them as they streaked past him. Neither Albus nor Minerva bothered to answer. When they came through the main doors, Severus was there, striding purposefully towards them. “They’re not in the infirmary. Albus, I believe we have—” “An imposter, yes. They may be in his office,” Albus said. “Hurry.” Later, Minerva would marvel at the quickness of Severus’s mind in following Alastor to the castle, but at the moment her thoughts were taken up entirely with finding Harry before it was too late. Questions about Alastor’s fate tried to crowd in, but Minerva pushed them away. Harry was her first responsibility right now. When they arrived at Alastor’s office, Minerva didn’t hesitate to draw her wand against the man she already thought of as the imposter, but Albus was faster, and Stunned him right through the heavy door. Seeing Alastor’s body inert on the floor—though it wasn’t Alastor, of course—almost undid her. I cannot do this. There was a squeaking noise, and Minerva looked over at Harry, who was pale and shaking. There was blood on his shirt and trouser leg. She went to him and tried to get him to stand, grateful for an excuse to get away from the scene before she lost control, but Albus stopped her, and his words about acceptance seemed aimed more at her than at Potter. But that may have been an illusion. Minerva was sure of very little during those surreal minutes in Alastor’s office. A moment later, when Albus dispatched her to find Sirius, she was confused. Albus would later tell her that when he’d realised Alastor might have been in the trunk for ten months, he’d thought the better of keeping her there until he knew more about Alastor’s condition, which he was afraid might be very bad indeed. The errand gave her time to think, and as she hurried back from the headmaster’s tower, she came to the same conclusion Albus had: the imposter had used Polyjuice, which meant that Alastor was most likely still alive. The hair from a corpse would not work, if she remembered her Potions lessons correctly. She hoped to all the gods that she did. When she returned to Alastor’s office, still anxious and distraught, the tale that issued forth from Barty Crouch made her ill, but her nausea was quickly overlaid with relief at his confirmation that Alastor was alive. A quick darting of Albus’s eyes toward the open trunk as he left her to guard Crouch told her what she was most desperate to know. She kept her wand trained on Crouch, who sat quietly, arms and legs bound. All was silent, but for the steady weeping of the house-elf in the corner. After a moment, when it became clear that her charge wasn’t going to move, Minerva backed a few steps toward the trunk and chanced a look inside. There he was. He wasn’t moving. But Crouch had given every indication that he was still alive. Surely Albus wouldn’t have left her here alone with Crouch if Alastor were dead, would he? A glance back at Crouch told her that he was still quiescent. “Alastor?” she called down into the trunk, hating how frightened and tentative she sounded. “Alastor, please wake up.” He stirred. “Alastor, it’s Minerva.” “Minerva?” His voice was thin and creaky, and the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. “Here I am, love,” she said. “Barty Crouch—the son—” “Yes, we’ve got him. You’re safe now.” “Potter?” “He’s fine.” Alastor smiled. “Good lad,” he said. “Alastor?” “Hmm?” “Are you— are you all right?” It was a stupid question, but he didn’t seem to mind. He grinned like a man drunk. “Never better.” He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the light and looked up at her. “Jaysus, but you’re beautiful.” She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. A moment later, his eyes closed and he seemed to fall back into a contented sleep, his snores reassuring her as to his well-being. She wanted more than anything to get into the trunk with him, take him in her arms, make sure that he was truly all right, but at that moment Poppy bustled in. She wrinkled her nose on seeing Crouch. “Where is Moody?” she asked. “Severus said he was here.” “He’s in there.” Minerva pointed to the trunk. Poppy blanched, but went right to the trunk and climbed in. Minerva resisted the urge to call down to her for a report on Alastor’s condition, and less than five minutes later, Poppy re-emerged. “How is he?” Minerva asked. “He’s weak. Been Stunned hard, among other things. His pulse is thready, and—” When she saw Minerva’s face, her mien softened. “He’ll be all right, Minerva. He just needs a little care.” She bent over the trunk with her wand, saying, “Mobilicorpus,” and Alastor’s prone form, covered by one of Albus’s brightly spangled cloaks, rose. “Why is he unconscious?” “I put him in a Stasis Sleep. He needs to stay calm, and being Levitated isn’t pleasant. I’ll wake him after I’ve had a proper look at him in the hospital wing.” “Thank you, Poppy.” Minerva’s voice caught, and Poppy patted her shoulder with her free hand. “He’ll be fine. He’s a tough old bird.” Minerva gave her friend a watery smile. Poppy spied Winky in the corner and put her free hand in her pocket to withdraw a small phial. “Give this to the house-elf. It’s Dreamless Sleep, a very small dose. Severus said she was distraught.” Minerva nodded, and Poppy guided Alastor’s floating form from the room, her wand keeping him steady. Minerva went over to Winky and knelt. “Winky? I’d like you to drink this. It will help you sleep.” “Winky does not want to sleep. Winky wants to stay with Master Barty.” “I know, but there isn’t anything you can do for him right now. When they … when they decide where to take him, you will be allowed to visit him. Professor Dumbledore will see to it.” Winky’s enormous eyes, red and wet, met Minerva’s. She took the phial and looked at it sceptically. “Go on, dear. It’s to help you.” Winky unstoppered it, but before she drank it, she said, “Professor McGonagall will make sure no one hurts Master Barty?” “Yes.” Winky nodded solemnly, and tipped the contents of the phial into her mouth. A moment later, the phial dropped from her hand, and she slumped over, snoring. Poor little thing. Minerva turned her attention back to Crouch. She knew she shouldn’t speak to him, but she couldn’t help herself. “I don’t understand you.” He didn’t respond. “Your mother and father loved you so much. They were good people. How could you have turned to such wickedness?” She was surprised when he spoke. “I was born wicked.” He sounded empty. Still under the influence of the Veritaserum, then. “No one is born wicked.” “I was.” “Why do you say that?” “I liked killing. Even when I was a child.” Minerva was dumbfounded. “You killed as a child?” “Animals. You know … mice, birds … a few cats. Our Crup … Father strapped me when he found out what I was doing, so I learned to hide it. From then on, I played the good little son.” “But you knew it was wrong.” Barty shrugged. “My father said so. I had no reason to disbelieve him.” “But you kept doing it.” “It felt good. And it impressed the boys at school.” “You told your schoolmates?” “A select few. I needed protection. I was small. I was shy. I wet the bed. And my father’s work made me unpopular in Slytherin. So I showed them what I could do. They enjoyed my creativity. And then one of them introduced me to the Dark Lord. He has such power … my father never dreamed …” “That’s what attracted you to him?” He looked at her as if she were some exotic species of bird. “Of course. And I am his favourite. He has promised to show me things …” Minerva’s attention was suddenly pulled from the horror of his words to the possibilities they offered. “What things? Has he told you his plans?” Crouch frowned. He was obviously aware, on some level, of what she was doing, and was trying to resist the potion’s imperative. Minerva’s nerves were strung like a bow; if she played things right now, she might get information that could help them cut the coming war short. Alastor’s long-ago advice about getting the truth from a recalcitrant subject—or student—rang in her head: Make him want to tell you. “Barty, the Dark Lord has told you a great deal, hasn’t he? Things he’s told no one else, because he trusts only you.” The frown melted into a smile. “He has favoured me.” “He shares secrets with you. About what he plans to do …” “To scum. Muggles and mudbloods and blood-traitors.” He looked at Minerva, and the smile grew into a leer. “Like you.” “What is he going to do?” Confusion clouded Crouch’s face. “He— no …” “He’s going to punish blood-traitors like me and Dumbledore, isn’t he? We’re … we’re scum, aren’t we?” “Yes … scum … He’s going to punish you all.” “But we— we scum control the Ministry, the Wizengamot. How will he ever punish us without taking them over first?” “He will … he … will … no …” “No? You think he will fail?” “No! He will do it … once he controls the Ministry …” “The Ministry will be very hard to take. I don’t think even the Dark Lord would be able—” “He has supporters. Inside.” “Ohhh,” she said, as if the idea were a revelation. “Supporters inside the Ministry. Like you.” “No … scum …” “Former Death Eaters? The ones who escaped …” “Scum. They never cared for him.” “Not like you. Who are they, Barty? The scum your Master trusts with the Ministry?” Minerva became aware of voices in the corridor, and Barty swayed a little. Not now! “Barty—” A sudden sensation of blistering cold ran through her, and her mind fogged over. Dark images hovered just outside her conscious thoughts, and terrible sounds echoed faintly in her memory. “I’ll take him from school, and you’ll never see him again … I’ll take him … never see him again …” The door opened, and a Dementor floated in, followed by Dawlish and the other Auror, their Patronuses urging the Dementor toward Crouch. No! This must not happen! Minerva summoned her happiest memories. She was on the beach, watching Alastor and Malcolm wrestling and splashing one another in the gentle surf … Malcolm handing Rosemonde—so tiny!—to her to hold the first time … When she turned her wand on the Dementor, Dawlish stepped in front of her. “It’s all right, Professor. We’ve got it.” “But—” Cornelius Fudge’s voice cut her off as he entered the room. “Oh. Minerva. Yes. Well, no need for you to stay. We have this in hand.” He gestured to the Aurors, who withdrew their Patronuses. The Dementor swept down toward Crouch. He had gone white, and slid from the chair in which he’d been seated. “Expecto Patronum!” The silvery cat leapt from Minerva’s wand. It drove the Dementor to a corner of the room where it hovered as the cat prowled back and forth, keeping it in check. The Aurors looked from Minerva to Fudge, who frowned and made an impatient gesture at them. Dawlish pointed his wand at Minerva’s Patronus and Vanished it. The Dementor went immediately back to Crouch, who was now pressed against the wall. “No, no, nooo! Please don’t, please …” “Cornelius, stop this!” But Fudge said nothing, his mouth set in a grim line, and she watched as the Dementor bent to Crouch, lifted his chin in its skeletal hand, and pressed its mouth to his lips. She wanted to turn away, but she forced herself to stand witness as their best chance for avoiding another war was destroyed. The creature released him and hovered a foot or two away from the ruined husk of Bartemius Crouch Jr. Moments before, Minerva had hated him with every molecule of her being, but her loathing had drained away along with his soul, replaced with horror at what had been done to him in the name of justice. Alastor would have stopped it. He’d never held with the Kiss. Five of the Dark wizards—and none of the Dark witches—he’d helped prosecute had received the ultimate penalty, all after fair trials, and he’d made it a point to watch every sentence carried out. He’d come to her afterwards once, sick with anger. “It’s unimaginable, Minerva. We have no right. I don’t care what he did. He took life, but we took his humanity. If we deprive a man of his soul, how are we any different from them?” It had taken hours to soothe him, and now she understood why. She was shaking, and her mind was aflame as if from a curse she couldn’t escape. Dawlish raised his wand and cast his Patronus. The Dementor drew away from Crouch, kept at bay by the Auror’s Peregrine falcon. Crouch’s eyes were empty, and a thick rope of saliva hung down from his open mouth. Minerva turned on Fudge, her fury like a thing alive, and he took a step backward, clutching his hat by the brim against his chest as if to protect himself. “It was for the best,” he said. “You must recognise—” “I recognise that you have condemned a man without benefit of trial!” “He confessed! Snape told me.” “That doesn’t give you the right to steal a man’s soul!” “May I remind you that I am Minister for Magic? I have every right—” “No, you do not! No one has that right. And if you tell yourself you do, you’re just as wicked as he was, no matter what lies you tell yourself to the contrary.” Fudge’s face reddened, and he glanced at the Aurors. She turned on them. “And you! Doing whatever you’re told, without question, brining that thing in here like a pet you can control. Dumbledore will have your guts for garters—all of you!—when he finds out.” Dawlish looked helplessly at Fudge. “Minister—” “Get it out of here,” Fudge said through clenched teeth. Gesturing at Crouch, he added, “Him too.” A swish of Dawlish’s wand sent his Patronus at the Dementor, and the falcon swept it out the door, Dawlish hurrying out behind it. The other Auror went to where Crouch was slumped on the floor and Levitated him. He gave a cry of disgust when Crouch’s bladder let go, splashing the Auror’s shoes with urine. Minerva raised her wand. “Tergeo!” Her spell cleaned and dried Crouch, and she put her wand back in its pocket, despite the pleading look from the Auror. When he realised she had no intention of drying his shoes for him, he guided the hovering form of Barty Crouch out the door. Fudge tucked his hat under his arm and followed them out of the office without a word. Minerva was at his heels. “Have you any idea what you’ve just done?” she asked. “Get hold of yourself, Minerva,” Fudge said, walking quickly without looking at her. “The terrible events of this evening have clearly overcome your good judgement.” “My good judgement? You have destroyed a man who might have given us valuable information!” “Nonsense. What valuable information could a … a lunatic provide?” “Information about You-Know-Who’s return.” Fudge stopped and turned to her. His face resembled watery pot cheese. “He has not returned.” “Potter says he has.” Fudge turned away and resumed his brisk pace down the corridor. “Potter is lying.” “Dumbledore believes him.” “Dumbledore is mistaken!” “When was the last time Dumbledore was mistaken about anything?” “Your loyalty is commendable, Minerva, but you are blinded by your admiration. Dumbledore has been hoodwinked by an attention-seeking young man. There is nothing Crouch could have told us that we don’t already know. He was a dangerous lunatic and has been rendered unable to harm anyone else.” He spoke as if giving a speech, and Minerva realised he’d already formulated a story in his mind. She wondered if he believed it. “What was his crime?” she asked. They were on the staircase now, and Fudge stopped again. His eyes narrowed at her. “What do you mean?” “You said that Crouch confessed. To what crime?” “He … he impersonated Alastor Moody. False imprisonment …” “And is it customary to subject a man to the Kiss for such things?” “He was deranged. Dangerous. Diggory …” “How did Cedric Diggory die?” “I don’t … that’s …” “Did Voldemort kill him?” “Certainly not.” “Then did Crouch kill him?” “We don’t know. Possibly.” “Possibly.” She shook her head in disgust. “And what were his other crimes?” “I don’t know what you mean.” “If I understand you correctly, you do not believe that Barty Crouch aided and abetted a Dark wizard because you do not believe that Dark wizard exists. Is that so?” “Crouch was deluded.” “But you admit that you are unsure of how Cedric Diggory died and whether Crouch was directly responsible.” “I’m certain we will discover—” “You absolutely refuse to consider the explanation that Potter gave and that Crouch himself confirmed under Veritaserum. You call him deluded, yet you accept his confession as regards the kidnapping and impersonation of Alastor Moody. Am I correct so far?” “That isn’t—” “Ergo, you have condemned a deluded man, at your sole discretion and without having bothered to interview him yourself, to the worst and most permanent penalty the wizarding world has to apply—the first and only time it has been invoked for a non-lethal offence, if I am not mistaken. So, Minister, I am asking you why.” “I do not have to explain myself to a schoolteacher!” He continued down the stairs, Minerva following relentlessly in his wake. “No. But if I have anything to say about it, you will have to explain yourself to the Wizengamot and the wizarding world at large.” “They will support me once they hear the facts.” Fudge stuck his hat firmly on his head and descended the last of the stairs. “Where are you going?” Minerva demanded. “Back to the Ministry. I have other business to attend to.” “Not until you tell the headmaster what you have done. Or are you afraid to face him?” “I am not afraid of Albus Dumbledore!” “Good. Then you won’t mind talking to him. I expect he’s in the hospital wing with the boy Crouch has spent the past year planning to kill for no reason, as you would have it.” Fudge sped toward the main door and almost ran into Severus Snape, who was coming through it. “Minister,” he said, putting a hand on Fudge’s arm as if to steady him. “The headmaster would like to see you.” “Escape foiled,” Minerva said. Snape looked from Fudge to Minerva, raising his eyebrows at the expression on her face. Fudge looked out the door as if contemplating running for it. He huffed in exasperation. “Very well,” he said, removing his bowler and smoothing his thinning hair. “Where is he?” Severus said, “He was in the infirmary when I left him, however I am afraid I was detained in delivering the message. I believed you to be on the grounds, and when I went to find you, I encountered a problem with your Auror guard.” “A problem?” Fudge asked sharply. “He was in some difficulty with the Dementor.” Snape glanced again at Minerva. “He had been overcome, so I lent my aid.” “Was he—?” Fudge asked. “Kissed? No, but he was rendered incapable of performing his duties. I enlisted Hagrid to carry him to the gates.” “And the Dementor?” Minerva asked. “I believe I dispatched it, deputy headmistress, but it would be advisable to set a patrol over the grounds this evening. The creature was quite … energised.” “Yes. Thank you, Snape,” Fudge mumbled, and continued on into the hospital corridor, Minerva close behind him. The idea that the Dementor might have been left unchecked at the school launched her fury into incandescence. “You have endangered everyone in this school with your cowardice!” “My good woman—” “I am not your good woman!” Fudge pushed the doors to the infirmary open with a bang, and she followed him in, still shouting. She knew she was making an undignified spectacle of herself, but at that moment she didn’t care. It was only after Albus had dispatched her to fetch Hagrid and Olympe—probably to keep her from chasing Fudge down and covering him with painful boils—that she realised Alastor hadn’t been in the infirmary. After a grave meeting in the headmaster’s office with a shell-shocked group that included Olympe, Severus, Hagrid, and the Weasleys, she raced down the stairs to the infirmary. “Poppy!” “Hush, Minerva,” Poppy said, hurrying over. “Potter is sleeping.” “Where is Alastor?” “In his quarters. After I woke him, he refused to stay. I took him myself—he’s still very unsteady.” “Thank you.” Poppy caught her arm as she turned to go. “Minerva, he’s going to be fine, but I’d feel better if someone were looking after him for the next few days. Maybe you can convince him to let … someone stay with him.” “I’ll try.” Five minutes later, she found herself outside his door, trying to work up the courage to knock. ← Back to Chapter 38 On to Chapter 40→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A